The Wanderer
by foxtrotelly
Summary: At that, he was back again.


**Disclaimer: Gakuen Alice copyright © Tachibana Higuchi, 2003-Present**

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><p><strong>The Wanderer<strong>

_**by foxtrotelly**_

_~ for this. pen. is. red. (without the spaces!)~_

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In a broken down shack somewhere up north, he sat by the window, staring up at the colors streaking the dark night sky. He knew their location's exact coordinates, and so, knew the exact spot where the _aurora borealis _shone most beautifully. Just as he'd known precisely where the stars were the brightest on the alps of the Lyngen or the pale moonlight reflected the most off the cascading water of the Plitvia.

Because despite everything else, he still had these kinds of nights to himself.

Growing up, he had never thought he would spend most of today running, hiding. That he'd be under this evening sky, away from the confined glass windows and concrete walls of his childhood. In the midst of all _this. _

Not the running, though. That he tried to forget, along with the gunshots and manipulation and hurt involved in his daily line of work. That he tried to forget.

But seeing, close enough to touch at arm's length, a world that he had once only witnessed in his books. He had thought existed, even. Somehow, it was one of the only two things that kept him going. The other was Yuka.

He looked to his right where she sat on a rickety old chair pushed against the way, fast asleep.

Sometimes, on nights like these, she'd be awake with him too. Maybe when the too-dark shade of the Amazonian forest canopies brought back nightmares of her lover's demise or the too-cold Gobi snow kept her up and reminded her of her lost daughter. Then she'd either just talk to him about this like she's always had and he would listen like he always would or she'd remain silent and he'd listen intently to that too. He never had anything to say, and he felt like that was all she needed, along with him not being too close but close enough. Just to have and to hold.

And wordlessly or with at least a few, numbered names to spare, he'd draw out to her the constellations draping the Botswana horizons or gesture towards the retreating figure of an endangered gazelle in the shadows of their camp. He'd point out the tree which most Rio birds would perch on for the night or maybe even fill out a forgotten Rasta tune which she starts outside their warehouse retreat along the Montego shores. Then he would take in her soothing hums harmonizing with the cicadas' own or the way moonbeams got trapped in the tears he was too shy to wipe away.

He knew she was just as broken as him.

Often times, though, he'd be alone. Those were the times he was relieved to see Yuka blessed with an untroubled night's rest. Either way, he never let her out of his sight (as it was under his own conditions that the organization _always_ task them on assignments together).

When he was by himself, he would think. Mostly about his old life, sparingly about his present. There was too much a big difference between the two than he would prefer to acknowledge, but he had always liked replaying and amplifying the most out of the fewer better moments of his past.

Amidst the rice terraces of Banaue, he'd count the steps of the ascending staircases of earth and wonder if they'd be able to lead him to heaven and to his old tutor whom he had admired very much. Watching the sun set in Phnom Pehn, he'd be vaguely reminded of non-urgent afternoons left behind at the student council room. The island of Suqatra would always remind him of his infamous aunt's scrupulously tended secret garden within the Hanahime Den like that large rock window on Malta coast looked like his own dormitory window that was the perfect patch of azure on cloudless Saturday mornings. Then he'd be back to lessons in the study with elderly Minoru-sensei and free days and looking up from his morning coffee and Ariyoshi novel and the feel of orange blossoms filling his lungs. Back to asking about love and walks back to the dorms together and tiny scribbles in between dog-eared pages and leaving her favourite flowers at her sill at night when she wasn't there.

Then he'd realize, again and again, that perhaps some things have never changed.

At the thought of her, he whispered, "Beautiful."

She stirred from under her thin blanket. She blinked at him, sleep in her eyes. "_Senpai?_"

But his eyes were still on the aurora. "Nothing," he shook his head, "just the sky."

She nodded at him. "Okay." Then she closed her eyes again.

The blanket slipped from her side as she shifted again. This time, he reached out fix it over her.

Now he was back to drawing pictures from his books with his crayons gripped tightly in his little hands. The colors seemed to dance off the paper before his eyes. He's in his room, at his real house, alone.

But perhaps he never had a real home. Perhaps his home was right here, wherever he was, looking up at the sky—his roof—that stretched infinitely all around him.

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><p>Boo you, hacker. (Again, my sincerest apologies to Maria!)<p>

But anyway, I'm glad we're all alive. :)

_Review? _


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